The Upside of Unrequited

by Becky Albertalli

  “Not a big deal?” Cassie asks.

  Olivia shrugs, smoothing glue over the end of a bead.

  Cassie grins. “You texted me at five thirty in the morning.”

  “Ugh. I’m sorry. I’m being ridiculous.”

  “Livvy, you’re not being ridiculous.” Cassie scoots closer and hooks her arm around her. “I just don’t like seeing you sad.”

  “I’m not sad. I’m just . . .” Olivia looks down at the finished bead nestled in the palm of her hand.

  “That’s really pretty,” I say.

  “Thanks. Yeah. Anyway, it was just Evan being weird. He was asking me a bunch of questions about waxing . . .”

  “What?”

  “Like Brazilian bikini waxing.”

  “Um. Okay.” Cassie raises her eyebrows.

  “Yeah. It was out of nowhere, and he kept saying he was just curious about it, and I was finally like, ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’” She pauses to slide her bead onto her string. “And he says, ‘No, of course not, why do you think that?’”

  Cassie sighs. “Jesus Christ.”

  “I don’t know.” Olivia smiles tightly. “I really think he was just curious.”

  “Pretty sure he’s trying to police your vagina.”

  “I mean, he didn’t ask me to, like, get waxed.”

  Cassie laughs. “Uh, I’d say he hinted pretty strongly. Fuck that, though. That is so not his call.”

  It occurs to me, suddenly, that I’ve been staring at the same magazine page for the last five minutes. And it’s not even the right color scheme. I feel slightly on edge.

  I just honestly hate this kind of conversation. It’s not that bikini waxing is a foreign concept to me, but . . . I mean, I guess it kind of is. Like, it’s one of those girl habits that’s so far beyond me, it makes me feel like a different species. Do boys require hairless vaginas? Is this a known thing?

  Of course, the magazine I’m holding makes me think so. Not that there’s a big hairless vagina in my face. But it’s one of those models with perfect shadowy cleavage. How do they get their cleavage to do that? I’m pretty sure I could drive a boat through my boobs, they’re so far apart. I guess it’s just this feeling that my body is secretly all wrong. Which means any guy who assumes I’m normal is going to flip his shit if we get to the point of nakedness. Whoa. Nope. Not what I signed up for.

  It makes me never want to be naked. And it’s not like I could be a Never Nude. I don’t even like jean shorts.

  “. . . am I right?” Cassie asks.

  I look up and realize they’re both looking at me.

  “Yes,” I say. Which is probably a safe answer. Cassie usually is right.

  “Ugh. I don’t know.” Olivia shakes her head. “Like I don’t even mind the idea of it or whatever. I just don’t want it to be a thing. I hate confrontation.”

  “Uh, clearly.”

  Olivia smiles shyly. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you just confirmed that you would literally rather get the hair ripped off of your vagina than deal with confrontation.”

  “Oh,” she says. “I guess so.”

  “That is—nope. Just. Give me your phone.” Cassie makes a grab for it.

  “Cassie!”

  “Are you texting him?” I ask.

  “I’m just letting him know”—she starts typing—“that Olivia would be happy to get waxed if he’s willing to wax his tiny, microscopic little peen at the same time. . . .”

  “WHAT?” Olivia makes a violent grab for the phone. “Don’t you dare hit send.”

  Cassie leans back on her elbows, laughing. “There’s that fighting spirit.”

  “Fuck you,” Olivia says, grinning down at her phone.

  Immediately, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

  Text from Olivia: luv my hairy vag!! Vag FTW!!! go wax ur butthole pls schulmeister.

  I snicker, tilting my phone toward Olivia. “Oops! I think this text was meant for Evan. Should I forward it to him?”

  “I hate you both,” Olivia says, halfway between a laugh and a scowl.

  We burn out on beads after an hour or so—and by that, I mean Cassie burns out and starts dumping the magazines back into their reusable grocery bags. But I really think the bead therapy helped. By the time Olivia leaves, she’s her unruffled self, even if the situation still has Cassie amped up.

  “What was that about?” Nadine asks when we walk into the living room. She’s nursing Xav on the couch.

  Cassie sinks down beside her. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Is Olivia okay? I was just talking to her mama. Sounds like she’s looking at art programs.”

  “That’s definitely not what we were talking about,” says Cassie.

  “Evan’s being a shitbag again,” I say, and Cassie beams down at me like a proud parent. Must be the word shitbag. Cassie loves compound curse words.

  “Schulmeister?” Nadine says. “What did that little fuckwipe do now?”

  Come to think of it, Nadine loves compound curse words, too.

  Cassie tells her the whole thing, and you can tell Nadine loves every moment of this. I don’t think there’s a single thing on earth that brings more joy to Nadine than throwing shade at Evan Schulmeister. She’s never liked him, ever since he asked if Cassie was actually queer, or if she was trying to emulate our moms. He actually used the word emulate. I don’t even want to remember that particular stretch of awkward silence.

  Actually, I do. It was kind of amazing.

  But my mind keeps drifting back to the way I felt this morning on the porch. There’s so much I don’t know about. And everyone else seems like they were born knowing. Things like waxing. And birth control. I know the mechanics, obviously, but how does it play out in real life? Who brings the condom? Can anyone buy condoms? Can you use the self-checkout U-Scan so there’s no eye contact involved? Except—oh God—what if the machine announces it?

  CONDOMS! Twelve ninety-nine! Please place your GIANT BOX OF CONDOMS IN THE BAG. Oh, but your VALUE PACK OF CONDOMS is too big for our sensors. Please wait, and someone will assist you shortly.

  “Why are you so red, Momo?” Nadine asks.

  Whoa. Molly. Hey. Get your shit together.

  I guess I shouldn’t worry about this until I’ve actually, you know, kissed a guy.

  ON WEDNESDAY, I SOMEHOW END up in the backseat of Mina’s ancient but immaculate Lexus.

  “I can’t believe this is your car,” Cassie says. “I mean, it’s so cool that you even have a car.”

  “It was my grandma’s,” says Mina.

  “Our grandma’s not supposed to drive anymore,” Cassie says. “Because she hit someone.”

  Mina gasps. “Are you serious?”

  “Dead serious. I was with her. I mean, she was going really slowly, and the guy was totally okay. But she cursed him out and called him a bitch.”

  Mina laughs. “I have to meet this woman.”

  “She’s visiting next week,” I say. “You should come over.”

  “Okay, no,” Cassie says. “Mina does not need to meet Grandma. That is a solid nope.” She grins, and I look at her, curled up in the passenger seat, her whole body turned toward Mina. She’s like a flower tilting toward the sun.

  “So, Molly, can I ask you something?” Mina says, after a moment, eyes flicking up to meet mine in the rearview mirror.

  “Sure.”

  “Cass says you’ve had crushes on twenty-five guys.”

  “Twenty-six,” Cassie corrects immediately.

  “But you haven’t dated any of them?” Mina asks.

  “No,” I say. I feel the usual prickle of self-consciousness.

  But when Mina glances at me again, her expression is sweetly curious. “Is there a story behind that?”

  “There’s no story. It just never . . .” I lean back against the seat, squeezing my eyes shut.

  I have this sudden memory of middle school. There was this table of boys in the cafeteria who would yell boi-oi-o
ing when hot girls walked by. Except when I walked by, they made a womp womp womp sound, like a boner going limp.

  I remember feeling frozen. Cassie was screaming at them, and I couldn’t catch my breath. I thought I was dying.

  My first panic attack.

  I mean, here’s the thing I don’t get. How do people come to expect that their crushes will be reciprocated? Like, how does that get to be your default assumption?

  “Well, she doesn’t put herself out there,” Cassie says. “Like, at all. So, Molly’s never actually been rejected, either.”

  “And I’m okay with that,” I say. Cassie snorts.

  I stare out the window. Bethesda looks so different from Takoma Park. Everything’s a little quieter and fancier, and there are definitely fewer mixed-media art installations in people’s front yards. But it’s nice here. Some of the houses are really, really big.

  “Well, what kind of guys do you like?” Mina says, slowing for a stop sign. “Other than Will.”

  Jesus Christ. Hipster Will. I never actually said I liked him. I don’t even know if I do. I’ve met him once.

  “Oh, she likes all kinds of guys. Molly’s a crush machine,” Cassie says. “Let’s see. Noah Bates. Jacob Schneider. Jorge Gutierrez. That guy Brent from Hebrew school. The eyelash kid from camp. Josh Barker. Julian Portillo. The short guy from pre-calc. The student teacher. Vihaan Gupta. And Olivia’s little cousin.”

  “Okay, I did not know he was thirteen.”

  Cassie grins. “Oh, and Lin-Manuel Miranda. That’s a major one.”

  “Aww, really?” Mina says, beaming at me in the mirror. “Me too!”

  “Yeah, well. Just so you know, he’s Molly’s currently reigning crush number twenty-six, so this may end in a fight.”

  I stretch forward to smack Cassie, maybe harder than I need to.

  “Or a duel,” she adds, under her breath, and Mina bursts out laughing.

  I close my eyes again. Mina and Cassie are murmuring softly now. About something unrelated to my wasteland of a love life. So, that’s good. I let my mind wander—but it keeps snagging on a single point.

  Molly’s never actually been rejected.

  I just hadn’t really thought about it like that before. But it’s true. I’ve never been rejected. Not directly. I’ve never given anyone the opportunity.

  I’ve never rejected anyone either.

  And maybe that’s even weirder than the fact that I haven’t kissed anyone. At the very least, I’m pretty sure these things are all related. Somehow.

  Cassie nudges me suddenly. “Hey, we’re here.”

  I let my eyes slide open.

  Mina’s house is brick and medium-sized, with a super-gorgeous front yard. You can tell they planned in advance where the bushes would go. Mina parks in the driveway, and Cassie and I follow her down this little path to the front door. Her parents are at work. She slides a key into the lock.

  Immediate first impression: everything in Mina’s house looks like it’s there on purpose. The walls are white, with framed family pictures placed almost symmetrically. The windows are huge and clean, so everything feels really sunny. Also, everywhere I look, there’s art: paintings and sculptures and even the light fixtures. Lots of animals, especially tigers—some realistic, but mostly stylized, and it’s the perfect mix of cute and badass.

  I kind of want to pin this whole house to my design board.

  A painting in the hallway catches my eye—maybe my favorite one yet. “Your parents must really love tigers,” I say.

  “Oh, that’s like a Korean thing,” Mina says.

  “Oh geez, I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry?”

  “Okay, this is really cute,” Cassie interjects. She taps the edge of a canvas-wrapped photo of Mina hugging the life force out of some goat in a petting zoo.

  “Oh God,” says Mina.

  “I love it.” Cassie steps closer. And then their fingertips almost touch. Not quite.

  Makes me wonder.

  Mina clears her throat. “Um. So, the boys are on their way, but we can head down to the basement. I’ll leave the door open for them.”

  “The boys?”

  She gives me this painfully knowing smile. “Will and Max.”

  “Oh.” I blush.

  We follow Mina downstairs. The basement is enormous. I don’t think Takoma Park has basements like this. She walks us through it, and it’s a whole other floor of the house. There’s a bedroom with its own bathroom, a little mini-kitchen, and an actual sauna. But the main room of the basement is a TV room with a giant flat screen and the mushiest denim couches I’ve ever encountered. As soon as I sit down, I can actually feel my butt leaving an imprint. I never want to stand up.

  “Can I get you guys something to drink?” Mina tucks back a strand of hair and adjusts her glasses, and she honestly seems kind of jittery. Maybe it’s weird for her, having us here.

  We both say no, so Mina ends up perching on the armrest of the love seat, next to Cassie. And there’s this extra-drawn-out pause.

  I take one of those deep cleansing yoga breaths Patty is so obsessed with: slow inhale through the nose, controlled exhale through the mouth. I think it’s supposed to help with childbirth, but it actually helps me now.

  Goal: don’t be weird and awkward.

  “So, how do you know Will and Max?” Cassie asks. “Are they exes, or . . . ?”

  “Oh, God, no. Not like that. I’ve known them both forever.”

  “That’s like us and Olivia,” I say.

  “Oh yeah! She’s the tall girl with the blue hair, right? Cute, kind of curvy?”

  “Yup,” Cassie says, but I can’t help but wince. Like, yes, Olivia is kind of curvy, and Mina didn’t say it like an insult. I know it’s not an insult. But I just hate when people talk about bodies. Because if Mina thinks Olivia’s body is noticeably curvy, I’d like to know what she thinks about mine.

  No. Actually, I would not like to know.

  “Oh!” Cassie says. “Olivia wanted me to tell you she’s really sorry she can’t make it. She’s working.”

  “Aww. Where does she work?”

  “One of those pottery-painting places. Super Olivia-ish,” Cassie says, and Mina nods.

  Distantly, I hear the front door open, and someone yells, “Hello?”

  “We’re in the basement!” Mina calls.

  The door thuds shut, and there are footsteps on the stairs. I’m definitely nervous to see the guys again. Not because I have a crush on Will. It’s just that they’re both so inaccessibly cool. And when they step into the room, it’s immediately confirmed. There’s just something about them that looks completely right. Like they’re in the right bodies. Max is vaguely muscular, in an understated way, and his anime-boy bangs are actually kind of nice today. Maybe. And Will basically looks like he was born inside an American Apparel. He’s wearing an old Ben’s Chili Bowl T-shirt and jeans, and he still manages to look stupidly perfect. I think that’s what I want. To look stupidly perfect in a T-shirt.

  Also, Will is holding a beer.

  There’s a throw pillow beside me. I pick it up and hug it tightly.

  “You guys all remember each other, right? Will Haley, Max McCone—and this is Cassie and Molly Peskin-Suso.”

  “What the what?” asks Will.

  “It’s hyphenated,” Cassie says. She looks up at them. “You brought beer?”

  “We stole it,” Will says. And I guess I must look scandalized, because he turns to me and winks. “Just from upstairs. Mina’s dad has a beer fridge in the garage.”

  “I can’t believe your parents just let you take beer whenever you want it.”

  “Uh, no. But my dad is really unobservant, so . . .”

  “I want unobservant parents with a beer fridge.” Cassie sighs.

  Mina grins. “It’s actually a kimchee fridge.”

  “And all the normal food goes in the kitchen,” adds Max.

  “Oh, really?” asks Mina. “Care to explain w
hy kimchee isn’t normal food?”

  “Max is like the verbal equivalent of a bull in a china shop,” Will explains, settling in beside me on the couch. I can’t resist sneaking a peek at him: his rumpled mess of red hair and sleepy blue eyes. He leans back and stretches, and his shirt rides all the way up, exposing his stomach—pale and flat, and dusted with light hair. I need to stop blushing. Especially because Max and Will are now exchanging what appears to be a very meaningful glance.

  If it is a glance about me, I will die. We are amused by the sad chubby girl who is clearly enchanted by our hipster beauty.

  Seriously, I will die.

  I’m probably paranoid, but now I can’t stop thinking about this. I get locked into this cycle sometimes. I develop counterarguments in my head. Actually, gentlemen, I’m intrigued, not enchanted. And I’m anxious, not sad. And if you call yourself a hipster, guess what? You’re not a hipster.

  Of course, it’s possible the meaningful glance was about beer.

  Cassie sits up straight. “Will, I hear you’re an artist.”

  “Uh, I do photography.”

  “That counts.” Cassie smiles. “Molly’s really artistic, too.”

  Oh God.

  “Hey, that’s awesome. What do you do?” Will slides off the couch and settles onto the carpet, cross-legged, smiling up at me. I feel like a kindergarten teacher. If kindergartners drank beer.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “What kind of art?”

  I shake my head quickly. “I’m not artistic. I just like crafts.”

  “She makes jewelry,” Mina says.

  Okay, they need to fucking stop. This is so mortifyingly transparent. HEY, WILL, LOOK AT ALL THE STUFF MOLLY HAS IN COMMON WITH YOU. EXCEPT SHE ACTUALLY DOESN’T HAVE ANYTHING IN COMMON WITH YOU. SHE JUST THINKS YOU’RE HOT.

  “That’s not art,” I mutter, burying my face in the throw pillow.

  “She did all this Pinterest shit for our brother’s first birthday party last month,” Cassie says. “It was so cute. And she does all the decorations for our birthday parties. She did the centerpieces for our b’not mitzvah.”

  “Is that like a bat mitzvah?” Mina asks.

  “Yeah, like a double bat mitzvah. Or, in our case, a barf mitzvah.”